


Lessons

by Charis



Series: Tumblr AU Prompts [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, F/M, Families of Choice, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Parent-Child Relationship, Prompt Fill, Richelieu's cats, Single Parents, Teacher-Student Relationship, Tumblr Prompt, d'Artagnan hijacked my fic, kid d'Artagnan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 08:52:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3844783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charis/pseuds/Charis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Charles de Winter, age seven, can't entirely be blamed for acting out given his often-absent mother, and his teacher decides steps need to be taken. (Or: what happens when d'Artagnan hijacks an Athos/Milady prompt.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Up-front disclaimers:  
> a) I do not speak a word of French. I never studied French. I think I got the familial terms right. If I didn’t, please correct me and I’ll fix them. Somehow they just flowed better.  
> b) Since we have no canon first name for d’Artagnan, I borrowed from the historical figure.  
> c) This is weirdly serious crack. I have no excuses.  
> d) This also 99% failed at the prompt. More on that at the end.
> 
> For another prompt from [this AU prompt meme](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/post/117094313773/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-ill-write-a-short) on Tumblr.

> _4\. teacher/single parent au - Milathos_

  
_We speak of educating our children. Do we know that our children also educate us? (Lydia Sigourney)_

“Charles.”

Maman’s voice is stern; even with how often she’s been away, Charles knows that tone well enough to realise he’s in trouble. And so he closes the comic he’s reading (a little too slowly, a little too reluctantly) to meet her eyes.

“You’ve been fighting again.” She’s holding a letter -- he can see Monsieur d’Athos’ neat script like a ghost through the folded paper -- and her face is pinched and tired.

“Ye~e~es,” he drags the word out. There’s no point in lying to Maman -- she always knows. It’s part of her job somehow, though Charles has never really understood why. Maman’s job is just another one of those things he’s not supposed to ask about.

“Will you tell me why?”

He looks down at his bruised knuckles, trying not to scowl (and failing, because while he’s still mad at Louis he’s almost as mad at Maman for keeping secrets and for being gone so often and for not listening to him). “I told Monsieur d’Athos,” he says mulishly.

“Charles --”

“Ask him!” he yells, and then snatches up his comic book and his sweatshirt and runs before she can say anything more. It’s mean and probably not fair, but she wasn’t fair first.

He spends the rest of his afternoon down by the river, kicking rocks and stomping around and scowling. He punched Louis, but Louis had said horrible things about Maman first, and even if Charles hates her for leaving him with Pépé so often (and he likes Pépé, even if they aren’t actually related, but it’s not the same), he still loves her, because she’s _his mother_ and she’s all the family he really has. He just wishes she wasn’t gone so much because he wants to talk to her about things and she always tells him ‘not now’, and then when kids like Louis say those sorts of things what else is he supposed to do to make them stop?

Dinner is quiet, uncomfortable with just the two of them; not until he’s tucked into bed and Maman comes to kiss him good-night do they say more than a few words to each other. But when she bends down to kiss his brow, fingers brushing his hair out of the way, he mumbles an explanation.

“That’s why you hit him?” she asks; he thinks she sounds a little surprised. When Charles nods, she sits down on the edge of the bed, stroking his hair gently. He wants to protest that he’s too grown up for that, nearly eight, but it’s nice having her there and so he just snuggles into her warmth. “My little gentleman,” she says fondly. “Your father was a good man. You take after him so much --”

“Then why do you never talk about him? Every time I ask, you say you’ll tell me later, but it’s never later. Why not?”

Her fingers stop; when she says nothing, he twists his head around to look up at her. Her face is very still, her eyes sad and far away, and when he flings himself at her in a fierce hug she starts before her arms tighten around him in turn. “I love you, my boy,” she murmurs against his hair, quiet and fierce. “Don’t ever doubt that.”

It’s not until Charles is nearly asleep that he realises she’s avoided his questions once again.

~ * ~

Monsieur d’Athos sits down next to him at lunch that Friday. Most of his classmates are in small groups, but he doesn’t want to talk to anyone and so he’s alone at one of the corner tables with his nose buried in a book. They might tease him about it, but he doesn’t care. The stories are better than his stupid classmates anyway.

He can’t tell Monsieur d’Athos to go away, so he just ignores him and pretends he’s still reading. After a few minutes, though, his teacher just reaches out and takes the book from him. “You’re reading the same lines over and over, or not reading at all,” he observes, over Charles’ protest.

“I _was_ reading,” he grumbles, but at the sympathetic noise looks up from his food. “What?”

“You should get to know your classmates better, Charles.”

He scowls and snatches the book back. “Why? They’re just a bunch of jerks.”

There’s something soft and sad in Monsieur d’Athos’ eyes -- something that reminds him a little of Maman’s when he’d asked about Papa. “No man is an island,” he says; it sounds like he’s reading a line from a poem. When Charles blinks at him, a little confused, he just smiles. “People are meant to be around each other. You and Louis may not get along, but there are seventeen other children in this class. I’m sure one of them will appreciate who you are, if you let them get to know you.”

He leaves after that, and Charles goes back to his book and his sandwich, but the words get him thinking. And so when he ends up partnered with Constance Bonacieux for math for the third time that week, he tries to look at her as a maybe friend instead of someone else who’s going to tease him about having no father and almost no mother, and when he smiles hesitantly she smiles back and asks if he wants to sit with her and Annie at lunch. They’re girls, he thinks later, walking to Pépé’s from the train stop after school, but they’re okay.

And then two weeks later Louis insults Annie, and Charles punches him again, and he’s left in the classroom at the end of the day when all of the other children have gone and a very disappointed-looking Monsieur d’Athos, who just looks at him at first.

“I won’t say I’m sorry,” he mumbles, because one thing Maman taught him is that you don’t lie when it matters, and much to his surprise -- both of theirs, maybe -- his teacher laughs.

“What did Louis do this time?”

“He called Annie stupid. Just because she’s quiet doesn’t mean she’s dumb -- she’s one of the smartest people I know.”

Monsieur d’Athos exhales heavily and sits down next to Charles. He looks a little funny, folded into one of the child-sized chairs, but there’s nothing funny about his serious expression. “Listen to me, Charles. Louis is wrong, and we both know that. Louis probably know that too. But just because someone is wrong doesn’t mean you can hit them. Did your mother teach you that was okay?”

“No!” he exclaims, horrified. Maman would never do anything like that. No matter how angry he’s made her, she’s never hit him, not even once. “But -- Louis doesn’t _listen_. How can I tell him he’s wrong if he doesn’t listen?”

“He won’t learn that from being punched either.”

He thinks of the storybooks he’s read and frowns. In the stories, knights would do honourable combat to defend the honour of ladies, but from Monsieur d’Athos’ face he doesn’t think that saying next time he’ll challenge Louis to a duel is the right answer. Anyway, no one fights duels anymore, even if it would make things easier. “What do I do, then?”

“Ignore him. It’s what the girls have been doing all year. Insults like that are the refuge of cowards and fools most of the time.” He frowns, looking at Charles, and then says, abruptly, “Is your mother home?”

“She’s away again.” Away for a week already, and she’d called last night and said it would probably be another two before she was home again. Right now he really, really hates her, because the school’s athletic events are that Friday and he’s sure she’ll be late again this time, and he was really hoping she’d be there to see him run because he’s good at it, and he might win one of the races -- everyone says so. But if he does, she probably won’t see it. She’s _never_ there.

His frustration and anger must show, because Monsieur d’Athos reaches out, puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll talk to your grandfather, then. But one thing you have to understand, Charles: you’ve hit Louis twice this year. You can’t do it again. I’m telling you this because you’re a bright boy and I know you can understand, but if you do it a third time they’ll suspend you from school, and you’re too clever to do something like that because you can’t control your temper.”

It’s not the sort of reaction he expected -- he knew hitting Louis was a bad thing, but he’d expected Monsieur d’Athos to be like all the other teachers he’s had and not care as long as Charles didn’t make them look bad. And okay, hitting Louis probably makes Monsieur d’Athos look bad, but that’s not what his reaction’s about. There’s something serious in his eyes, quiet and a little sad, that makes Charles think this isn’t about his job, but about Charles himself.

“Promise,” he says, and means it.

~ * ~

He helps clean up the classroom afterwards, wanting to sort out this baffling situation before he leaves, and because it’s grown late Monsieur d’Athos lets him telephone Pépé. Pépé doesn’t sound worried when Charles tells him his teacher has offered to give him a ride home, just asks to speak to Monsieur d’Athos for a moment before the phone goes back to Charles. “Alright,” Pépé says, “but make sure he comes in when he drops you off. I want to meet him.”

No one says no to Pépé, and so Charles just agrees.

There’s surprise when Monsieur d’Athos follows him to the front door -- surprise and recognition, because apparently he and Pépé know each other. Charles wants to know more, but they vanish into Pépé’s study, and he’s left with the cats, listening at the door (which isn’t very helpful -- Pépé’s house is old and the doors are all so solid Charles has to lean into them to get them to open). Eventually he gives up, curls up on the sofa with his schoolwork and Lucifer in his lap (Lucifer misses Maman too, he knows -- she’s his favourite -- and he always finds Charles when she’s gone), and waits to hear what happens.

That night, he hears Pépé on the phone, but he can’t make out more than half the words, and what he hears just gives him funny dreams.

He keeps his promise, though -- behaves, even when Louis says worse and worse things. It helps that Constance doesn’t have any problems yelling insults back; half the time, Charles has to hold her back while Annie calms her down. They end up staying further away from Louis and his cronies at break, and soon enough the older boy loses interest, and Charles just concentrates on his new friends and on his studies and on the upcoming contests. He runs from the train stop to Pépé’s, and if he shows up out of breath then his grandfather just shakes his head and chuckles and lets it slide.

The Friday of the competition is perfect -- cool but not cold, mostly sunny -- except that Maman didn’t come home the night before like she’d said she would, and Charles can’t decide if he’s absolutely gutted again, or if it’s happened so many times that he’s past being disappointed. He puts it out of his mind, though, stands with Constance and Annie and the rest of his classmates as they queue up for hundred-meter race. Principal Treville is there at the starting line, starter’s pistol in his hand, and down at the other end, he can see Monsieur d’Athos waiting for them. And just past him, in the crowd of parents, is Pépé, and --

The bang of the pistol startles him. He runs -- unthinking, heedless, only aware that there’s been some kind of miracle (is _that_ what Monsieur d’Athos had talked to Pépé about?) and Maman is _here_ , and if there was ever a race he’d wanted to win it’s this one, because she’ll see it and --

He’s not the first; Nico beats him by half a step. But when he looks up from bending over to catch his breath, Maman is still standing there, motionless and smiling like the sun as she looks at him, and he races across and flings himself at her, not caring who sees him hugging her. “You came back,” he mumbles against her dress, and she laughs (it sounds suspiciously like a sob) and ruffles his hair. Her eyes are bright when he looks up at her, and he just catches her hand and drags her forward to where Monsieur d’Athos stands, surrounded by the other children and their parents but watching them.

“Maman,” he says, because it suddenly matters a great deal, “I want you to meet the best teacher in the whole world.”

“Madame de Winter.” There’s something oddly formal in hearing someone refer to Maman that way, but Charles knows better than to say anything and so just watches his teacher extend a hand. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”

“From the influence I hear you’re having on my son, I’m only sorry it took this long,” Maman replies. “A pleasure indeed, Monsieur d’Athos.”

Charles wants to hug them both in his excitement, but then Constance and Annie descend on him, chattering and pulling him away. As he lets himself be dragged off, he watches his mother and his teacher shake hands and smile at each other and thinks, _‘Maybe things are changing.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy bananas, this did not go where it was supposed to go. Somehow “hey, y’know what would be funny, make d’Artagnan the kid!” turned into “let kid!d’Artagnan hijack this fic!”. So I’m sorry, anonymous prompter, and if you want I will totally go back and write some of the background things d’Artagnan wasn’t aware were going on from Athos and/or Milady’s perspectives, or something that comes after this (because tiny d’Art is so going to matchmake at this point I don’t even know what my brain is on oh god), but I figured this at least is a “hi, I tried, so sorry!” sort of reply.
> 
> I've got a request for more in this setting, so there may be more coming.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was _supposed_ to be a one-shot, but after posting I promptly got two requests for more in this 'verse, so ... I guess it keeps going. XD This is going to be more of a series of linked one-shots than anything else, all probably to the shorter side and updated with no sense of regularity. I have three prompts to still address after this one, so there should at least be that much more ...
> 
> This one was for the anon who asked "Would you consider writing more of your school milathos fic?". Yes, dear anon, apparently I would. XD

He’s always understood that most children have a mother and a father, but Maman had explained to him at a young age that Papa was gone forever, that he had died a hero and wasn’t coming back. Charles was a precocious boy and he understood this meant that Maman and Pépé were his only family. But he loved them, and they loved him, and things were cosy and comfortable in Pépé’s old home and so he’d never given much thought to it being strange. To him, family has always been the three of them and Pépé’s cats and twice-yearly visits to Papa’s grave, and he’d never really felt like he was missing anything, even when all the kids around him had two parents.

Everything was fine until he started école and Maman began working outside of the house again. When he was little she’d go away sometimes, but never for more than a few days and never more than once a month. But her absences became longer and more commonplace the older he grew, and when Charles complained about her being gone she’d held him and murmured apologies, but nothing changed.

Not until his third year, when Maman’s absences are more common than not, does anything happen – and not until his third year, when things finally start to improve, does Charles look at his little family and see where it could be even better.

He loves Maman. As angry as it made him when she was gone and it felt like she was ignoring or abandoning him, he loves her and always has. And as much as he loves Pépé, he knows Pépé is old and he’s not the same to have around as a parent. And he sees how Maman’s face goes sad and quiet sometimes, sees how Pépé worries about her, and can’t help thinking it might be better if Maman had someone else, like in his storybooks.

And if he knows the perfect person for her – well, then he’ll just have to make sure she realises it too.

~ * ~

He watches Maman at school events, watches her and Monsieur d’Athos together. Maybe he’s just happy that things are changing, but he thinks the smiles they give each other are real, not the pretend ones adults wear so often. Monsieur d’Athos always seems genuinely pleased to see her, and Maman talks more with him than she did any of Charles’ previous teachers, so he’s pretty sure that if they don’t already like each other they will once they get to know each other better. They’re just taking _so long_ to do it.

He complains to Pépé about it one day, when Maman is away and they’re sitting together in the living room after dinner, just the two of them. But when Charles suggests that they tell Maman, Pépé just smiles and shakes his head. “Your mother’s a stubborn one, Charles – always has been. You have to let her figure things out for herself.”

“But –”

“Patience, my boy.” But Pépé’s eyes are narrowing in consideration, and his hand stills on Serpolet’s back. “Although …”

Pépé understands – he always does, sees a lot more than he ever talks about, and when he agrees that Maman and Monsieur d’Athos would probably like each other very much it makes Charles even more hopeful, because if Pépé sees it then surely he’s right. And he can handle being a little more patient after that, especially when Pépé explains that it’s not quite proper as long as Charles is in Monsieur d’Athos’ class. It doesn’t stop him from trying to nudge things forward, from staying after school just a little too late when Maman is around so that his teacher offers him rides home, from watching when they talk to each other at school events, from contemplating ways to make them meet once the term is over. Constance and Annie tease him about it, but they’re his friends and he knows they’ll keep his secrets and don’t mean it badly. They’re also girls, which means they’re better at this sort of thing than he and Pépé, and so he listens to their suggestions and promises to tell them everything that happens.

He’s not good at patience, but Pépé was right, and so he _tries_ with all his might – because as much as he is impatient, he wants Maman to be happy, and he likes Monsieur d’Athos very much, much more than any other man Maman has ever been interested in (and there haven’t been many, but Charles has pretty much hated every one of them for one reason or another), and he wants this all to work out the way he’s never really wanted anything that he can remember.

“Is it wrong to pray for something like this?” he asks Pépé one Sunday, when it’s just the two of them going to church – Maman’s away again, and the house feels too quiet without her, and he’s beginning to despair of this ever working out.

Pépé’s hand is warm on his shoulder. “It’s never wrong to pray for happiness for those we love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone curious, stuff in this AU/headcanon will post under [this tag](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/tagged/d%27artagnan-you-little-punk) on my Tumblr. (There's a lot of headcanon ramblings there right now, thanks to anon questions.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's not for a Tumblr prompt, but it lays groundwork I needed to wrap my brain around a couple of the ones I've yet to fill. And for something completely different, have Athos' point of view this time around.
> 
> Pâques, if I am getting my terms correct, is Easter proper. (I feel like I need to trot out my "I am not a Christian (much less Catholic)" disclaimer here, with a bonus side of "I am not French".) I did take liberties with the timing of the school holiday, but not by much. XD;;

He’s not sure what he’d expected, considering the persistently unreachable Anne de Winter; he’d formed vague notions, inevitable when any of his students talked about their parents, but those ideas very seldom codified into any sort of coherent picture. All he knows, after meeting her for the first time, is that all of those hazy expectations pale next to a reality that hits him hard, because it’s all too clear within moments where her son gets his charm from. The hand which clasps his extended one is warm and sure, her smile genuine. He’s never been hit by attraction in such a viscerally immediate way before.

But he’s her son’s teacher, and he genuinely likes the boy, and to make any kind of overture would be wildly inappropriate and ill-advised. And so he just returns her smile and makes surprisingly easy conversation (or not surprisingly, perhaps, given that they’re discussing Charles) until another parent approaching prompts him to excuse himself. And if later his thoughts drift back to her, that’s hardly unreasonable when it was their first meeting after nearly half the term.

It’s Charles who dragged him back to the house for the first time, when Olivier had his conversation with -- well, it’s Monsieur Richelieu now, as the other man seems to have set aside all military rank in retirement. He can’t regret intruding because he saw how happy her presence made her son, but that doesn’t make him any less apprehensive as he follows a gleeful Charles up the steps for a second time. The boy had stayed late after school to talk about the story they’d read that day, and once again Olivier had offered to drop him off at home, and if there had been an ulterior motive in his words he’s not about to admit it to anyone, least of all himself.

Madame de Winter had been out of the country, Charles had said, and yet it’s her and not Richelieu who opens the door at the boy’s shouted greeting. The smile that brightens her face as Charles launches himself at her with a happy cry is unmistakable; Olivier feels, suddenly, as if he’s intruded on a private moment.

“Thank you for bringing him home,” she says, once she’s chivvied her son inside to wash up. The smile is still there, lurking in the corners of her mouth and softening what could otherwise easily be haughty features. She’s as striking as he remembers, even more so like this.

“It’s no hardship,” he demurs, because it’s true -- Charles is bright and inquisitive and a joy to talk to, and to see her is an unexpected bonus. “I’m not that much further north, so it’s scarcely out of my way.”

“Still. It’s very considerate.”

She studies him for a moment, but before she can say anything further, the boy returns, sliding under her arm to lean into her side. “Are you staying for dinner?” he asks, with the blithe lack of awareness that only the young are permitted, and both of them balk, staring at each other over his head in ill-disguised surprise.

“I was just leaving, I’m afraid,” Olivier says quickly, before she can be pulled into some sort of awkward position by the question. “I have to get home.” And, when the boy’s face falls, adds, “Perhaps another day.”

Later, he tells himself it was only relief he saw in her face, and that it was his own confused emotions making him envision a hint of disappointment there as well.

~ * ~

In the weeks that follow, Olivier finds himself thinking of her more and more often.

She attends school events more frequently now, and Olivier is glad because he sees how it helps Charles -- how the boy is more at ease, how he gets on better with his classmates. Careful questions prompt an admission that it’s not just school events -- that she’s been home more often, which Charles is unabashedly glad about. Some of the others may tease him for it, but he clearly has no problem being his mother’s boy. And he and she talk every time she is out, and somewhere along the way Madame de Winter and Monsieur d’Athos become Anne and Olivier, and he knows he probably shouldn’t but he just can’t quite make himself stop.

Their brief conversations through the term have been just enough to leave him intrigued. It’s not a situation he’s used to, either; when he’d been younger he’d dodged the family expectation of marrying and carrying on the line by joining the army and never looking back -- and even after, attraction has been a rare and fleeting thing at best. That makes his interest in her (an interest he’s fairly sure is more than just platonic) all the more surprising. And while he reminds himself he doesn't know her, that any seeming closeness is just because of that professional relationship, it doesn't stop his thoughts from drifting to her.

He’s her son’s teacher, though, and anything more would be untoward, and so he just contents himself with getting to know her better -- a better place to start from anyway, in any sort of relationship. There are school events, and while she doesn’t attend them all (Richelieu is always there with the boy when she’s not, and wasn’t _that_ a surprising revelation), he learns from Charles’ chatter that she’s at more (and at home more) than she’d been before. Whatever the reason behind it, he’s glad for the boy’s sake. Charles is flourishing, as the combination of his mother’s presence and his newfound friendships simultaneously seems to ground him and give him confidence, and while he’s not supposed to play favourites with his students Olivier is quietly, secretly glad.

The spring holidays are rapidly approaching, and it becomes harder and harder to contain his students’ excitement at the upcoming break. Amid the chatter of family plans and vacations, Charles’ sullen silence stands out, and Olivier finds his misgivings confirmed when he finally manages to get a moment to talk to him alone.

“She promised just half.” Charles bangs the eraser back into the tray with a little more force than necessary, sending it bouncing to the floor. “But she never comes back on time, and Pâques is always for family. It’s not fair!”

“If she promised, then you should believe her,” Olivier says, because he knows Anne has been trying -- it’s come up a few times in their conversations -- and because he may not know what the work taking her away is, but he can see how much her son means to her and he doesn’t think she’d lie to him about something so obviously important to him.

The boy mulls over that in silence as he retrieves the eraser and cleans off the other board, but eventually he asks, “Monsieur d’Athos? What are you doing for Pâques?”

_‘Avoiding my family,’_ Olivier thinks but doesn’t say. He’s accustomed to spending his holidays alone by now; it’s a damned sight more peaceful than visits home have ever been. But how to explain that to a child, let alone one for whom the company is so obviously important? “I have a new book I thought I might finally have the time to read,” he says in the end, because it’s true and doesn’t sound nearly as lonely.

He can see the wheels in Charles’ head turning, but the boy changes the subject and Olivier lets it go.

~ * ~

“My son is insisting I invite you to spend Pâques with us,” is what Anne says, without so much as an introduction, when he answers his phone.

“I concede your point, madame,” he says, thinking back to their very first conversation with a smile. “He _is_ trouble.”

“He is indeed, and I’m very sorry for the trouble he seems to be causing you. It’s just -- he’s grown quite fond of you, Olivier, and I’m not sure how to explain to him that a teacher is different from a friend.”

It’s not reproach -- if anything, he thinks she’s chiding herself for not having the words -- and so he just shakes his head (stupid and useless over the phone) and demurs. “Unless you see it as a problem, it needn’t be one. There are ten weeks left in the school year; I think I can maintain a teacher’s objectivity for them in the face of one day where I'm not one. And I don’t want to intrude but I’d like to come, if it’s alright.”

“Good.” She’s silent for a moment -- he wonders if the connection has cut out -- but then she adds, “I’ll call you once I’m back in the country with the details. Thank you for humouring Charles.”

“It’s no hardship,” he replies, almost automatically, and once he’s thanked her she does hang up.

Only when he looks at the call log on his mobile a few days later does he realise the number was a Thai one. It leaves him wondering once again what it is she does for a living.

~ * ~

“Thank you,” she tells him later. Charles has been packed off to bed despite his protests, Richelieu vanished into the study, which leaves the two of them alone in the living room -- the two of them and the black tom cuddled in Anne's lap, who'd given him a baleful yellow-eyed glare before settling there. (Olivier's glad of the cat's presence; it should keep him from exploring any of the foolish notions that have been filling his mind.)

“I should be the one thanking you,” he says instead with a smile utterly unforced. From the time he’d shown up early in the day, he’s been made to feel entirely welcome by all three members of the family; he hasn’t spent a holiday with others since the army, and today has left him feeling more than a little nostalgic.

It was fascinating, too, to be able to observe the family dynamic without his work pulling his attention away. For all that he’s watched Charles interact with both his mother and his grandfather, he hasn’t seen it at great length, nor the two adults with each other. And though he knows now the connection isn’t one of blood, it’s plain after watching that his old superior officer is an unquestioned part of the family. He can’t help comparing the warmth here to the distance in his own, to his kin’s detriment.

“Nonsense. You spent your holiday humouring a seven-year-old boy instead of doing things you’d undoubtedly have preferred.” Her eyes meet his, and the gratitude there is unmistakable. “It was our pleasure to have you join us, Olivier -- all of ours, not just Charles’. I know Papa appreciated having another adult around, though he may not be the best at showing it.”

There’s a sort of quiet intimacy to this, sitting in the mellow lamplight on opposite ends of the sofa and talking in hushed voices. The house has grown quiet, just the cat’s purring and the faint sound of the dishwasher running on the other side of the wall providing a muted backdrop to their conversation. And maybe it’s false, but it feels true enough that it makes him bold -- or more bold than he would be in the sun or the harsh fluorescents of the school. “And you?”

Surprise briefly crosses her face before she smiles. “Like my son, I’m not the sort to do things I don’t want to. You’ll notice I didn’t turn you out the moment he went to bed.”

“And here I thought you simply too well-mannered for that.”

The smile becomes a laugh at his rebuttal -- and oh god, he thinks, that’s not at all fair, because she’s downright gorgeous when she laughs, any last vestige of artifice or reserve falling away. “Manners are such a nuisance in the home, don’t you think? No, I promise you -- you’d not be here if I didn’t want your company.”

“Good,” he says finally, and shares her smile.

~ * ~

By unspoken agreement, they pull back after that evening -- retreat into formality at school events, talk more briefly, limit the texts they’d started exchanging to discussion of Charles and only the occasional personal remark. It could easily have worried him, but Olivier takes it as a good sign. It suggests that the easy banter between them is the precursor to more than just casual flirtation, and for that potential he’s willing to wait. Patience is something he learned years ago. And while Charles clearly notices the change, someone must have explained enough to him that he doesn’t push either, even when the end of term arrives and Olivier passes his class on to Monsieur Martin for the following year.

Summer holidays always leave him somewhat adrift, with little pressing to do but ready things for the next term (a relatively easy prospect after several years of teaching the same grade) and tend to the things he’s let slide around the flat. He’ll sometimes look up old friends from his unit if they’re back in France (few are that he cares to meet, though he writes to Porthos and Aramis like he always does, unsure of where they’re stationed these days but trusting the military post to see that his letters reach them), always finds some excuse to avoid going home to Pinon for more than a day or two, but his summers tend to be quiet and solitary. He’s never really thought them lonely before.

He finds himself toying with his mobile more than once, finding ‘Anne’ on his contact list, but though the excuse he’d had before is gone -- though there’s no impediment to the question he wanted to ask for a good six months now -- it still takes him almost two weeks to finally muster up the nerve to call.

“I wondered,” he says, once they’ve exchanged pleasantries, “if you might join me for dinner some night.” His throat is tighter than it ought to be, and he berates himself for how awkwardly formal and stilted the words sound, but then her laugh floats back from the other end, warm and pleased and a little surprised.

“Why, Monsieur d’Athos,” and she hasn’t called him that in months, but like this it’s a fond tease, surprisingly intimate, “are you asking me out?” But before he can reply she continues, her voice more sober, “I’m afraid I’m off again Thursday, though, and tomorrow belongs to Charles. But if you’re willing to wait until I’m back, then I’d like very much to say yes.”

He’s waited this long; another few weeks won’t kill him. And so he agrees and hangs up and lets out a breath he hadn’t quite realised he was still holding, and thinks, _‘Well.’_

She comes back ten days later -- he gets a text promising that she’ll call once she’s had a proper night’s sleep. But he’s got a conference down in Lyon to attend the following week, and so it’s nearly a month before their schedules match up and they agree to finally meet on a Monday night. He struggles with choices, ends up picking a smaller restaurant, nothing particularly ostentatious. It’s a comfortable evening, marked by laughter and stories and hands resting together on the table as often as not, easy in a way that should reflect far more than a cautious friendship and underlying attraction not even a year old, and when he returns her home several hours later she leans across the centre console and kisses him, quick and sweet, before getting out.

“We should do this again soon,” she says before she closes the car door, and he sits there and watches her climb the stairs and disappear inside and tries not to smile like an idiot at that prospect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions or prompts? Hit my [Tumblr askbox](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/ask) if you'd like.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For another anonymous prompt: "Athos' first time looking after kid!dartagnan whilst Anne is out of town on a work assignment".
> 
> This takes place about a year after the first story, and about three months after Olivier and Anne’s first date. (It’s also probably what ends up with Charles getting to call Olivier something other than Monsieur d'Athos, though I’m not sure what. XD;; ) There is Anne stuff that comes before and after, but it's unposted so far because I'm not happy with it.

Maman doesn’t lie to him. She won’t tell him things (he understands that sometimes it’s because work won’t let her, and sometimes because she thinks he’s too young – though he’s eight and very nearly grown up) but she never lies. And that’s why, when she goes away this time and doesn’t say she’ll be back before _la Toussaint_ , he’s especially upset. It’s always been their day, going to leave Papa flowers and to say hello, and it’s not fair that work is stealing that.

She leaves him with Monsieur d’Athos, because Pépé is still in England visiting his friends, and while in a way Charles is glad it’s not someone else he’s still angry and upset and doesn’t want to cooperate. It’s not fair to his old teacher (or maybe he should think of him as Maman’s boyfriend now), but right now he’s really not in the mood for fair, and so he just retreats to the little attic room with his books and curls up in the pile of winter bedding and spends the afternoon sulking. Monsieur d’Athos leaves him alone, and so it’s just him and whichever of the cats slip in for a visit, and if he ends up crying a little then at least they won’t judge him.

He comes back downstairs when it’s gotten dark, finds Monsieur d’Athos in the kitchen. At the smell of food his stomach gurgles, reminding him that breakfast was a very long time ago and lunch never happened (because of that stupid phone call, and he and Maman were going to pack a picnic and go to the park today, and the thought makes him upset all over again), and Monsieur d’Athos looks up and smiles just a little bit. “Hungry?”

Despite himself, Charles scoots closer, peering at the pot on the stove. “What is it?”

“Cassoulet.” He lifts the lid so Charles can look in, gives the contents a stir. “It’s ready if you want to eat.”

Part of him wants to say no and go back upstairs, but he’s not stupid (and it smells really good), and so he just nods. And because he was taught to have manners, he digs into the cabinets, pulls out bowls and spoons and placemats and sets the little table. Dinner is quiet; Monsieur d’Athos doesn’t push him to talk, and Charles is glad, just devours his food (and silently accepts a second helping when it’s offered) and thinks.

Maman was worried when she left. He doesn’t think it was just because of how sudden this call was, or about Pépé being away making her change plans; there was something in her eyes, in how she’d hugged him even when he stood stiff and didn’t hug her back like he usually does, that made him realise she was scared. And it scares _him_ , because nothing frightens Maman. He’s never seen her like that before.

And he hadn’t hugged her back. He’d told her he hated her work instead.

“Is she going to be okay?” he asks finally, breaking the silence as they wash up afterwards, taking care of the dishes and putting away the leftovers.

“Charles –”

“She has to be okay.” He’s going to cry again, and that’s not fair either, because he’s _eight_ , and he’s too old to cry. But his lip is trembling and his eyes are burning and it’s going to happen and he can’t stop it. “She _has to_. I don’t want her to think I hate her.”

Monsieur d’Athos’ face goes soft, and he’s hardly done more than put down the dish he’s washing and turned before Charles is clinging to him, dignity cast to the wind as he presses his face into the soft wool sweater and shakes with sudden sobs. It’s stupid – he’s being stupid, Maman will be fine – but he can’t stop crying like a stupid baby –

“Shh …” Warm arms enfold him, but Monsieur d’Athos doesn’t say anything else, just holds him and makes quiet soothing sounds. Not until Charles pulls back, wiping his nose with a sniffle, does he continue. “Your mother will be fine, Charles. You and I are both going to believe that, and when she comes back and walks through that door she’s going to laugh at us both for being silly, right?”

“Mmhm.” He sniffs again, scrubbing at the last of the tears, and looks up. He’s used to watching the adults around him, and this close he can see lines that have gotten deeper, the hint of a frown. “You’re worried about her too, aren’t you?”

“There’s no shame in worrying about the people you love,” Monsieur d’Athos says, quiet and serious, and when Charles hugs him tight he does the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This 'verse](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/tagged/d%27artagnan-you-little-punk) on Tumblr -- headcanon replies for asks, etc. [My askbox](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/ask) is always open for questions or prompts.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the anonymous prompt: "Ninon is dating Athos for a bit or they are close friends and she visits him once school has ended for the day. Charles is still there but that day Anne goes to pick him up and they are both very jealous of the stunning woman's closeness to Athos."
> 
> Not gonna lie, I have difficulties with the idea of either of these two involved with someone else, even in an AU setting like this (which is probably why Anne’s husband is pretty much Faceless Dead Guy) … but I tried! (It's been fun so far trying to figure out how these two work without all the baggage they have in the show. Hopefully they still make sense.)
> 
> (Charles didn’t really make his way into this ficlet, but he’s totally sullen in the background because Ninon is – in his eyes – throwing a monkeywrench into his Clever Plan. He’ll be relieved to find out that’s not true. XD )

“She’s very pretty.”

There’s something in the tone of her voice and the set of her mouth that makes him look at her rather sharply – neither is something he’s encountered before. He’s seen her angry, at him and others, but this is different. “Who?”

“That blonde teacher.”

It takes him a minute to put two and two together and remember Ninon had been there Monday when Anne came to pick Charles up after class, and another to realise just what that sharp note actually means. “… are you jealous?” And, when she gives him a withering look that suggests he’s an idiot (and maybe he is, because it’s not the first time people have assumed there’s something still between him and Ninon, but he’d thought she knew him better by now), “Good god, Anne – she’s a friend!” He’s even mentioned her before, but that was months ago, on their third date, and he’s not surprised Anne doesn’t remember.

Now he can see where Charles gets that mulishly stubborn expression of his from; it would almost be funny (okay, it is, a little, even if she looks like she’d murder him if he dared laugh right now) except for the part where he’s a bit hurt at the mistrust the implied accusation shows. “A very pretty friend,” she points out, “who you’re attracted to.”

And she’s right, in a way, but she’s more wrong than not. “A very pretty friend,” he agrees, “who I have no interest in sleeping with, let alone anything more. Ninon and I have been history for years.”

“Olivier –”

“History,” he continues, firm and implacable, “that neither of us has any interest in resurrecting.” They’d been looking for different things even in the university, and realised they’d be far better off as friends than bitter exes and parted amicably before things soured. It’s a decision he’s never regretted. She’d wanted freedom, unfettered independence, and he’d … It’s a thought that makes him smile as he looks at the woman in front of him. “Why would I want to dig up the past when what I have now is everything that I want?”

The declaration earns him rolled eyes and a derisive snort, but it also makes Anne flush, and she doesn’t pull away when he closes the distance between them, drawing her close as his hands curve over her hips. One of her palms flattens on his chest as she looks up at him. “Goddamned sweet-talker,” she grumbles, but it’s almost an endearment.

“I could introduce you sometime,” he offers, unable to resist tweaking her just a bit further, but they’d probably get along –

“Olivier?”

“Hmm?”

“Shut up.” And she suits action to words as the hand on his chest twists into the fabric of his shirt and pulls him to her.  


He’s more than content to let her silence him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This 'verse](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/tagged/d%27artagnan-you-little-punk) on Tumblr -- headcanon replies for asks, etc. [My askbox](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/ask) is always open for questions or prompts.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: "Anne is going to spend the night at olivier's and Charles packs a bag to go with them because he would like to go on a sleepover to Monsieur d'Athos' house as well".
> 
> This is an adorable prompt – thank you for it, anon! (Charles is making sad faces and it’s all your fault, though. XD )
> 
> This jumps back into the timeline, taking place between chapters 3 and 4 as posted. (I put together a [masterlist](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/post/119421542484/kid-dartagnan-au-masterlist) over on Tumblr once things started jumping around, and to collect everything for this. And then was surprised at how big it's getting. XD )

They’ve been seeing each other for five weeks when she broaches the subject. Some might think it too soon, but they’ve danced around their mutual attraction since October and Anne’s sure she wants this. The kisses they’ve shared have kindled a fire; she’s acutely aware of how long it’s been since she slept with someone, and while she could take care of herself, it’s not what she wants right now – not when Olivier’s here and clearly as interested as she is. And so they talk, and they agree that she’ll stay the night next time they go out, and they’ll see where things go from there.

Papa doesn’t look the slightest bit surprised when she asks if he’ll look after Charles the day after tomorrow, since she won’t be home – doesn’t bat an eyelash, just as he hasn’t in the past. (She’s grateful more than ever for his unflappability; it’s a conversation that will always have the potential to turn horribly awkward.) But when she goes looking for Charles Thursday evening to kiss him goodnight before Olivier picks her up, she finds him in his room, a small rucksack on his bed with the arm of a shirt straggling out, and thinks, _‘Oh god.’_ She’s never had to do more than tell him she’d be back home the next day; how on earth does she explain this to him?

“Darling, what are you doing?”

He looks up, those big brown eyes wide and innocent, and says, “I want to have a sleepover too.”

In hindsight, she probably should have expected something like this. Charles has never so much as met any of the men she’s dated before (a deliberate choice, when she’d never intended for any of them to be more than a brief indulgence), and he already thinks of Olivier as a friend – which he has become, but still. It makes it all the more unexpectedly complicated.

But Charles is just looking at her, and so she sits down on the edge of his bed. She doesn’t want to disappoint him, but at the same time she’d promised herself years ago that she wouldn’t coddle him. All the same, this is a situation for which words fail her. She finds herself wishing with sudden fierceness for Olivier’s effortless ease with her son, and hating him just a little for that.

“I can’t come, can I?” he asks, though, when the silence stretches long enough to grow taut and uncomfortable. There is disappointment in his eyes but no surprise. “This is one of those grown-up things.”

“It is,” she affirms, selfishly grateful that he understands enough to spare her. Anne reaches for him, draws him in to sit next to her. “Olivier and I need to discuss grown-up things and it’ll take a while.” It’s not a lie – there _is_ a lot they need to talk about, things that are easier brought up away from public spaces, and goodness knows this conversation is giving her one more subject. “But I promise I’ll be back in time to take you to the library tomorrow at ten like we’d planned – I haven’t forgotten.”

He seems somewhat mollified by that, or at least enough to lean into her, resting his head on her shoulder. “Monsieur d’Athos is nice, and I like him, but not if he takes you away.”

She laughs at that – forces it out, light and easy past a stab of concern, because she’s already engaged in enough of a balancing act with Charles and work, and this is reminding her of why she’s never considered exploring a relationship before. But she hugs him to her and kisses his forehead and feels a little more of that tension ebb. “I’m your mother, darling, and I’ll always be there for you, and nothing and no one can change that.” She  means it; any man who would ask her to choose isn’t worth her time. (Olivier won’t – she’s sure of that. If he does, she’s misjudged him worse than she has anyone before.)

“Good.” He snuggles into her embrace, adds, more quietly, “You like him too, Maman, don’t you?”

“I do,” she says, because it’s nothing but the truth. The more she looks at it the more she realises how easily Olivier fits, not just into her life but into the lives of those dearest to her. It would be terrifyingly easy to fall too far too fast.

Charles is silent for a bit before he squirms free. She lets him go, but when he stands it’s just to press a kiss to her cheek. “Then I can share,” he says, squaring his shoulders and trying his best to look adult, and the determination there warms her heart.

She’s smiling as she rises. There’s a balance she’s going to have to find here, between her son and Olivier and her work, but whatever it comes to, it’ll be worth the attempt. “I’ll make sure he knows he’s going to have to do the same.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Milathos where kid!d'Artagnan is being asked by Athos if he gives his permission to let Athos propose to Milady"
> 
> Further even in the future than the last couple of prompts – this takes place about two and a half years after the first story. It took a while to address this because I had to get enough settled into my head to frame it properly, but at this point I’m not going to try to write in chronological order anymore – I have enough of a timeline and an idea of events to be flexible, which is good.
> 
> This prompt was decidedly adorable and a lot of fun – thanks for leaving it, anon!

It takes over a year, and reaching the point where he’s spending more nights at their home than his own flat, before Olivier begins to seriously consider where this relationship is going. And once he realises that he wants all of this – wants Anne in his life in a way he’s never wanted to promise anyone before, but also this family of hers, Charles’ easy acceptance and affection, Richelieu’s occasional sharp glances tempered by the way he makes space for Olivier. They’re a tremendous part of Anne’s life and he’d love them for that alone, but they’ve welcomed him and that means immeasurably more.

To take that next step makes sense, and yet he hesitates. Part of it is the fear that she won’t want anything so permanent – after all, she’s been perfectly content to raise Charles as a single mother for the better part of nine years. But he’s also wary of disrupting the balance of the household (and the balance between them), and most wary of Charles. He may be precocious but he’s only ten, and Olivier wants to make sure the boy knows he’s not trying to replace even the memory of his father.

Eventually, he realises – awkward as it will doubtless be – that he needs to talk to Charles first.

He gets his chance unexpectedly, when he shows up early for a Saturday outing to find Anne on the phone with the office. She grimaces when he shoots her a curious look, mouths ‘I don’t know’ to his query of how long, and so he just heads out to the yard. Charles is picking the last of the winter pears, standing on tiptoe to reach, and he whirls with a brilliant smile when Olivier pulls one of the branches lower to make it easier on him.

“I’m glad it’s just us right now, because I have an important question for you,” he says when they’ve finished and the pears are safely stowed in a basket. Charles looks at him, large dark eyes suddenly serious, but he just waits expectantly and so Olivier continues. “Your mother and I have been seeing each other for a year and a half now, and I care about her a very great deal. I want to ask her to marry me.” Too blunt, probably, but all of his experience with children has nevertheless left him woefully unprepared for discussions like this. “But first I wanted to ask you whether it was alright with you if I did.”

No response at first, just a solemn ten-year-old looking at him – studying, considering, weighing – with an expression far older than his years. After what feels like an eternity, Charles frowns. “Why are you asking me?”

Olivier sits, putting them at eye level. “Because I know that you’re the most important person in Anne’s life. If I asked her to choose between us it would be horrid and unfair, and that’s what asking her would be if you weren’t alright with the idea of her marrying again.”

He nods slowly, evidently digesting that. Charles may be impulsive most of the time, but as he’s grown older he’s started learning that major discussions require thought. Right now, though, Olivier’s missing the impetuous boy; the lack of an answer is surprisingly nerve-wracking.

“Do you love her?” he finally asks.

He knows the answer – has even said it before, and yet to give it voice here in the daylight carries a finality absent when he’s whispered it against Anne’s hair in the darkness of the bedroom. But he _knows_ , and it clearly matters to Charles, and so he says, past the sudden tightness in his throat, “I do. Very much.” More than he’d imagined possible when they first met, that day in the schoolyard. More, he thinks, than he’s loved anyone in his life.

That frown doesn’t change, though, even as Charles settles into the other chair. “Can I think about it?”

As much as he hates to do so, Olivier nods. There’s a reason he asked, after all, and if Charles needs time to sort through this then he’ll find the patience. Anne – and everything else – is worth it. “As long as you need.”

The waiting is still agony. When Charles finally – _finally!_ – sticks his head around Olivier’s classroom door the following Friday, as he’s packing up, Olivier is half-convinced that he’s going to say no. But the boy just pulls the door closed behind him, marches up until he’s standing in front of Olivier’s desk, and looks him square in the eye. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” Charles repeats. “Because you make Maman happy. I like seeing her happy. And because you’re already almost part of our family, so it’s alright.”

And then the serious expression melts into a brilliant smile, and Olivier groans, reaching out to ruffle the boy’s hair. “You had me worried there.”

There’s an unrepentant gleam in Charles’ eyes, but by the time he puts his hair to rights and Olivier closes his bag, he mostly just looks happy. “I hope Maman says yes.”

“Me too, kid,” Olivier says as they head out, slinging a companionable arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Me too …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Masterlist](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/post/119421542484/kid-dartagnan-au-masterlist) over on Tumblr. [Askbox](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/ask) is always open for prompts, questions, or whatever.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this one: "Olivier and Anne planning the wedding and discussing family."
> 
> I wanted to work in discussion about the part where Charles will be getting two slightly crazy uncles, but that didn’t end up happening. (Still. He totally is and he’s bound to decide it’s awesome.)
> 
> Hopefully the information I looked up about how weddings are handled in France is reasonably correct – if not, please educate me. :3 (The most intriguing part was that they still post banns … which makes me wonder whether Athos’ family will find out.)

If Olivier stops and thinks about it, he realises he hasn’t attended any weddings in years – the last was Thomas’, just after he’d told his family his plans to leave the army, and any recollection he has of the event dwindles in the face of the far more vivid memories of his younger brother’s challenging stare, Catherine’s flinty eyes, and his parents’ silent disapproval. None of his close friends have married, and he’s not the sort to attend a wedding just because he’s invited, as has been the case with several coworkers. And while it’s not a problem, but it _does_ leave him with very little in the way of a framework.

When he was younger he had always assumed that, if he did marry, it would be Catherine (because they’d both been raised with that idea) and her mother and his would no doubt arrange the whole thing, so it had never been worth dwelling on. By the time he got old enough to seriously think about weddings, he’d realised he had no intention of marrying Catherine or anyone else just because his parents expected him to, and that it wasn’t even something he was especially interested in, not then and not with any of the other women he’s dated through the years, few and far between as they might be. Not until Anne.

He _does_ think about it, once he realises he wants the promise and the permanency that marriage implies (and especially after he asks and she says yes), but the more he thinks about it the more he’d realises he doesn’t care what the wedding itself looks like – that it isn’t important. This turns out to be a problem when first they talk about it one evening, albeit the kind of problem that leaves them both laughing.

“We’d be better off letting Charles decide the whole thing at this point,” she says with a last chuckle, wincing as she collapses back against the pillows. “I’m sure he has more ideas than either of us.”

“More than both of us together, probably.” Olivier tries to envision what a ten-year-old might come up with, especially one as fond of old stories as Charles is, and winces. “On second thought, that’s bound to end badly. Is it selfish to want something small and simple – just family?”

“I thought you and your family didn’t get along.”

“We don’t.” And he doesn’t want _them_ there for the wedding, god knows, doesn’t need his father’s sour disapproval and his mother’s haughty disdain, doesn’t need Thomas and Catherine clouding his happiness. “They’re not who I meant.”

She rolls back over to look at him in the golden glow of the bedside lamp. “Your army brothers?” One finger traces the tattoo on his bicep, following the lines inked into his skin. The understanding in her eyes doesn’t surprise him one bit; given her relationship with Armand (god, it’s still strange to think of his old commanding officer by his personal name), she’s well-acquainted with the idea of families of choice.

“They’re the only family I’d want around at a time like this – the only ones it matters to have there.” And even if Porthos and Aramis haven’t met her yet, he’s certainly written them enough about Anne (and gotten heckled enough in the return letters) that he has a fairly strong suspicion that they’ll get along just fine. It matters a great deal to him that they do. As well as he fits into her family, he wants her to fit into the part of his that counts.

Something in her face suggests they’re going to revisit the subject of his blood relatives, but she doesn’t pursue that line now. She doesn’t say anything, in fact, until he raises his brows in silent question. “What, mine? You already know the extent of it. I suppose this _will_ be small, if it’s just the four.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Hardly. I’d rather have our families and a private ceremony than any amount of pomp or circumstance just because it’s expected.” She smiles, a glint of wicked humour in her green eyes. “We can even dispense with the church part and just do the civil service, since we’re both shamelessly wicked.”

It makes him chuckle. They are, no doubt, as far as the Catholic Church is concerned – living practically under the same roof, being intimate well in advance of marital bonds. But it’s the twenty-first century, and the parish priest has never looked at them askance when he’s come to services with her family. “I think I’d like that part all the same, if Father Laurent is willing to officiate – I’m sure there’ll be others at the city office, and that can be ours alone.”

Her expression grows thoughtful as she considers that. Religion is more habit than faith for them both, the traditions less familiar to her than to him but still a part of life, but he hadn’t considered until now what that might mean in terms of a wedding ceremony. Just as he’s wondering if perhaps it had been the wrong thing to suggest, she murmurs, “I think I’d like that.” A soft laugh, “And it should satisfy Charles’ need for ceremony, since he won’t be able to stand as a witness.”

It’s a good thought, one he’d not even considered – but it’s important that Charles feel a part of it too, and there’s little room for a minor in a civil ceremony alone. And so he just smiles at the thought and reaches out to switch off the lamp, and leans down to kiss her once he returns. The silence fills the room again as they get comfortable, pull up the blankets, but once they’re settled she speaks again, almost musingly. “I never thought about how small this family is before.”

His turn to push up on one elbow and regard her. In the dimness that thoughtful expression is still there, but without any of the sadness he’d feared might accompany it. “We can change that.” Unlike marriage, children _are_ something he’d thought about in the past – hard not to, surrounded by youngsters for much of the year – but he’d never seriously imagined having any of his own. Fostering, perhaps, or adopting. But Charles has worked his way as inextricably into his heart as Anne has, and while he can’t ever replace the boy’s father it’s a role he’d like to fill as much as he’s allowed. And now, with Anne, with marriage … now, as with marriage itself, for the first time he truly wonders.

And yet it would mean changes – would mean sacrifices, more hers than his, at least to start. He’s sure they’d have Armand’s help, and his job means he can be home fairly early, but hers … He rests a hand lightly on her ribs, careful of the bruising still there, the underlying injury, just one of the more obvious reasons why fieldwork is incompatible with children. A baby would mean working from a desk for at least a year and probably longer, and he knows how she chafes at the idleness – how she’s struggled with that in order to be around for Charles more often.

But she’s looking at him, and there’s a softness in her eyes that’s only ever there for her family, and she says, quiet but steady, “I think I’d like that, too, someday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Masterlist](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/post/119421542484/kid-dartagnan-au-masterlist) over on Tumblr. [Askbox](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/ask) is always open for prompts, questions, or whatever.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Anne telling Olivier she is pregnant and then they have to tell Charles and armand. (It can be before or after the marriage, that is totally your choice)".
> 
> Takes place about a week after the previous prompt. Also, I suppose this answers [an earlier question](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/post/118033355676/would-athos-and-anne-have-any-other-children) of whether they’d have other kids more definitively.
> 
> I have no idea why Mazarin is apparently running whatever intel unit Anne’s involved with, but I swear it makes sense in my head. (Probably the part where he’s Richelieu’s protege. Either way!)
> 
> _[Italicised text]_ has been used to denote text messages.

She’s been more irritable than usual lately in the idleness that followed her last foray into the field, but even if the three cracked ribs were worth the lives saved, being placed on medical leave until she heals is never fun. It’s not bad at the beginning – she relishes the time to breathe, the lazy afternoons with Charles, the extra time abed with Olivier – but when they go off to school and leave her at home, it feels far too quiet, and it’s even worse once Papa takes off for another of his trips. But she doesn’t think at first that it might be anything unusual, chalks the irritability up to boredom and the exhaustion up to healing, until she finds herself curled up on the bathroom floor for the third time in as many days, nauseous and shivering.

That afternoon, when she feels more human, she goes to the pharmacy. She doesn’t get home before Charles, though, and so she leaves the box in her purse. It will keep until tomorrow. And when Olivier comes home a little later she says nothing of her suspicions, because there’s no sense in false alarms. But once they’ve gone the following morning she digs out the box and follows the instructions and waits, and waits, and waits.

And after ten minutes, the last few spent staring at the white plastic stick in her hand, she picks up the phone, because she wants to be absolutely sure before she talks to Olivier about this – before she lets herself react to the possibility. “Can you see me today?”

Lemay obliges, no doubt willing to take whatever chance he can to check how she’s healing – she is, at best, recalcitrant about doctor’s visits. She comes home several hours later armed with the results of her bloodwork, a prescription for prenatal supplements and another for anti-nausea medication, and a list of notes that would doubtless have been twice as long had she not reminded Lemay that she’s already done this once before. Back at home, in a house that suddenly feels too quiet and empty, she curls up on the couch and lets out a shaky breath.

She and Olivier had touched on the possibly of children a week before, when talk of wedding plans had shifted to discussion of family, but she’s pretty sure neither of them had meant right away. This is unexpected but not, as she accepts the reality of it, unwelcome. She just hopes he feels the same way.

~ * ~

When she comes back down that evening from making sure Charles is going to sleep (not reading under the covers, as he’s been wont to do recently), Olivier’s doing the dishes, and she just stands there in the doorway, watching in silence until he finally notices her presence and turns around.

“So,” she says, worrying the hem of her shirt between suddenly restless fingers, “that conversation we had last Friday.”

Upraised brows are an eloquent, if silent, answer. In fairness, they’d touched on a lot of topics that evening, but right now she’s only thinking of one. “How do you feel about our family getting bigger?”

He sets the plate in his hands down with almost exaggerated care. The knowledge dawning in his face is unmistakable, uncertainty warring with hesitant delight as he reaches for her with one still-soapy hand. “Anne?”

“It’s earlier than we discussed.” But she takes his hand in hers, places it over a stomach that betrays nothing yet, covers it with her own.

His thumb slips back and forth, tracing warm patterns through the thin cotton. He looks down, and his gaze is far away as it settles on their hands, but when he lifts it to meet hers again he’s smiling just a little. “I don’t care.” And then, suddenly worried, “Are you alright with this?”

“I am.” It had surprised her a little, but she’d spent the time alone today considering and realised that she wants this child – wants _their_ child, with all that means. And because the words seem inadequate, she clarifies, “More than alright. I’m happy, Olivier. Even if it’s not anything we’d planned for yet.”

He moves around behind her, wraps an arm around her waist; she leans back into him, and they just stand there in comfortable silence.

~ * ~

She worries about telling Charles; she knows how unsure he was about Olivier joining their family, and worries that this will feel like an even bigger change. It _is_ an even bigger change, because a second child will inevitably result in her splitting her attention. Concern makes her hesitant, and though she knows Olivier thinks she needs to tell him before it becomes obvious (and she acknowledges his point, because she knows how much Charles hates when she keeps secrets from him), he’s agreed to let her handle it.

It’s easier for her to put it off with her morning sickness under control. At first she tells herself she’s waiting for Papa to come home so she only has to do this once, but he’s still gone when she breaks the news to Charles several weeks later, and not in any way she’d considered, when the too-familiar office ringtone interrupts their dinner preparations one evening. She can’t avoid this call, whatever it’s about, and so she grimaces and reaches for her phone.

“De Winter.”

The man on the other end should really know not to antagonise her when her voice is so flat and hard, but whatever his reasons, Rochefort ignores the implicit warning. “I need you in Singapore tomorrow,” he says without preamble.

She doesn’t know why, and at this point it doesn’t matter. Her agreement with Mazarin had included a provision for fieldwork, but it had stipulated limited conditions – and even if it hadn’t, she still on medical leave. And even if she wasn’t … “No.”

The silence on the other end is stunned. She can practically hear the wheels in his head grinding to a halt. In the room around her, silence reigns as well, as two pairs of eyes fix on her – one worried, one confused.

When Rochefort does finally speak again, his voice is a warning growl. “Don’t test me, madame. You gave your oath, and I mean to see you keep it.”

“You can intend whatever you want. Even if I agreed to come out – which I’m not – Lemay hasn’t signed off on me going back into the field yet.”

“He will when –”

Olivier’s hand is on her back, warm and tense, as if he can feel the anger building in her. Charles has his mouth open already, no doubt on the verge of asking a question. Before either of them can say a word and distract her she snaps into the phone, unthinking, “I’m _pregnant_. Good luck getting him to clear me anytime soon.”

She hangs up before he can reply, and only then realises what she’s said, and buries her face in her hands, mortified. This had been nowhere on the list of possible ways she wanted to tell her son. Olivier’s laughing at her, and she reaches back to smack him, but Charles’ voice stops her.

“Really, Maman?”

She takes a deep breath, straightens to meet his dark eyes. He looks a little nervous, and she’s got a pretty good idea of why. So much for breaking it to him gently. “Really.”

He chews on his lip, looking from her to Olivier and back before asking, quiet and tentative, “Is it going to change things?”

Olivier’s hand settles on her shoulder, squeezing lightly, and she lets him speak. “It will, because things always do when a family gets bigger. But it won’t change how much your mother and I love you. Nothing could ever change that.”

Those must be just the right words, because the tension in Charles’ skinny body eases as he looks at her. “Nothing,” she affirms. “That’s one promise I’ll never break, my darling boy.”

~ * ~

She means to call Papa later that evening, sure Charles will beat her to the punch if she doesn’t, but there’s a text message from him on her phone when she checks it amid cleaning up. _[Jules says not to worry about Rochefort – and to tender his congratulations.]_

_[I didn’t mean for you to find out this way,]_ she sends back. The phone buzzes on the countertop while she cleans; when she picks it up again, there’s only a single message in response.

_[Are you alright, Annie?]_

He only calls her that when he’s truly concerned; if he was angry with her, that wouldn’t be the case. She doesn’t think he means the office, given the message from Mazarin, which means …

_[I’m sure about this, Papa,]_ she types, unable to keep from smiling a little. _[*We’re* sure. It’s a surprise that it happened, but Olivier and I are in agreement.]_

There’s no immediate response, and so she goes back to putting away the leftovers, but once she’s got everything safely stowed and the pan soaking she checks again. It’s just one message again, a single line, there when she unlocks the screen. _[Then I’m glad.]_

Hormones are making her soppy already – that’s the only possible explanation for the sudden prick of tears, the lump in her throat – nothing to do with worrying about how he might react as well. It’s the only possible explanation for why she’s standing in the kitchen with a wet dish towel in one hand and her mobile in the other, smiling like a fool. _‘Me too, Papa,’_ she thinks as she locks the phone again and heads out to join the others. _‘Me too.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Masterlist](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/post/119421542484/kid-dartagnan-au-masterlist) over on Tumblr. [Askbox](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/ask) is always open for prompts, questions, or whatever.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Athos’ parents finding out he is getting married and demanding to have dinner with Anne. Of course Charles goes as well."
> 
> Almost four months later, I finally managed to beat a reply to this into some sense of submission. I don’t know why it was so uncooperative (I think I discarded a half-dozen drafts?) even before work turned my brain into mush, but I ~~think~~ hope it worked out in the end.
> 
> Takes place several months after the previous chapter.

“You never talk about your family.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because yours is much nicer.”

Charles’ brows pull together in a look of confusion far too old for his young face; he clearly can’t decide whether he should be happy or sad. “Oh,” is all he says at first, in a slightly dubious tone. He’s silent for a while as they work, but eventually he looks up at Olivier again, and determination has replaced the befuddlement. “I’m glad you’re going to be part of ours, then. But can we just take you instead of all of them, then?”

He laughs despite himself at that -- because oh, if only things were that simple, but things always are in the minds of the young -- and then laughs even harder thinking about how Porthos and Aramis will react to that. “They’ll always be my blood. But if there were a family I could choose, yours would certainly be most of it.”

That mollifies the boy, enough that the rest of the afternoon goes quickly, and Olivier’s all but forgotten the conversation until his phone rings that evening. The number’s not one he recognises, and he answers cautiously. “Athos.”

“Olivier.”

“... maman.” The word leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but old habits die hard and he has never been able to address her with an impersonal ‘madame’ -- knows it would only make things worse if he did. And he’s already got a sinking suspicion as to why she’s calling.

“Your father and I want to meet her.”

Of course they do; he’s been dreading this (or worse, an uninvited visit) since the banns were posted. And if he doesn’t agree, they’ll probably show up at the mairie and make a mess. He’ll suffer through several hours of being belittled if it means the wedding itself remains unspoiled. “Dinner. Next week.”

“Wednesday. We have to be in Paris then for business.” As if meeting with him isn’t business as well. But it suits; a weeknight will mean he can set a deadline. After all, even his parents can’t say anything about a mother wanting to be home for her son’s bedtime.

By the time he hangs up several minutes later, he’s already dreading next Wednesday.

~ * ~

Her eyes sweep the restaurant as they enter, long-ingrained habit, and she spots the couple she thinks must be Olivier’s parents even as he flinches. She reaches out to squeeze his arm in tacit reassurance before shifting her hand between Charles’ shoulderblades to steer him forward. Her son’s on his best behaviour, knowing tonight is a serious matter; he’d fidgeted with the collar of his shirt for the entire metro trip over, but now his hands are at his sides and his back is straight, and she feels a swell of pride. He’s growing up as well as she could have ever hoped, and Olivier’s influence has definitely played a part in that.

The couple at the table look to be around Papa’s age. Even if Olivier hadn’t mentioned their history she’d have pegged them as aristocratic old money; they have a studied, ponderous dignity she’s seen more than once in that kind. His father rises as they approach, but his mother waits until he greets her, extending a hand for him to help her up, and Anne bristles a little as she watches, the subtly controlling gesture not going unnoticed.

“Maman,” Olivier says, though, turning back and holding a hand out to her, “Papa, may I introduce my fiancée, Anne de Winter, and her son Charles?”

The air seems to grow colder as both of them glance at Charles, who either doesn’t notice or choses to ignore the tension in favour of offering them a smile and a hand to shake, his manners as faultless as she could’ve hoped. She follows suit, murmurs empty pleasantries as she shakes Frédéric’s hand (grip a hair too tight, but it’s a reflex when he squeezes harder than necessary) before turning to Justine. Blue eyes, the same shade as Olivier’s but cooler than she’s ever seen his, drop briefly to her waist before returning to her own. “Olivier didn’t say you were pregnant,” the older woman murmurs, the disapproval in her voice plain.

_‘Because it’s not any of your damned business and he knew exactly how you’d react,’_ she thinks but doesn’t say aloud. She’s promised to at least try to give them the benefit of the doubt, even if at this point she’s already wondering how long it’ll be before the inevitable explosion, and which of them will be responsible. “Due in January,” she replies, managing to keep her tone mild. “We’re hoping for a girl -- though of course any child is a blessing.” (Okay. Maybe she can’t help getting in a bit of a dig even while attempting to be polite, but she’s bristling already at how dismissive they are of their eldest.)

The other woman’s eyes widen slightly in surprise but she says nothing, just resumes her seat with the air of a queen permitting her subjects the same liberty. Anne fights the urge to roll her eyes. Less than five minutes and she already dislikes her.

~ * ~

Interminable minutes later, chilly civility still rules.

Charles has been an angel (though she can see him getting restless, picking apart the crust of his roll as the adults converse); his presence is quite possibly the only reason she hasn’t done more than offer a few pointed remarks so far. Olivier’s parents have said nothing impolite, but their words have insinuated that she’s too common for their son, that having a child makes her even more unsuitable (to say nothing of the second one along the way), and that her choice of career (she’d described herself as a military analyst when asked, which is hardly scratching the surface but all she’s about to give them) is thoroughly unacceptable for a woman. It leaves her wondering whether he was different even as a child, how he possibly turned out as down-to-earth as he is -- makes her understand why he keeps them at arm’s length, and only speaks of his military brothers with affection.

Conversation has strayed time and time again to the younger la Fère son, and she’d have to be blind and deaf and utterly stupid not to pick up on the reason -- the little cuts, mentions that Thomas and Catherine have done this or that or something else are all too clearly intended to show how Olivier (and herself, at times) are lacking by comparison. He does not rise to the bait, but when she reaches across to squeeze his hand beneath the table, his fingers tighten about hers like she’s a lifeline.

The interruptions of ordering have done little to defuse the tension that’s building, though when the food shows up it helps some, or at least slows conversation. She’s beginning to regret agreeing to this, thinks it might have almost been easier to have had them show up at the mairie (and part of that might just be wanting to see Papa eviscerate them, because _he_ at least wouldn’t have to be on good behaviour), but done is done and they just need to get through the rest of this meal. She’s managed to smile and be polite through enough diplomatic functions that surely she can handle this, even if none of those have ever been so personal. Still, the air is a little less tense after the meal, and she hopes perhaps it means the evening can end without disaster.

It proves to be a forlorn hope. Charles has just trotted off to the bathroom (asking to be excused first, so no reason for complaint there) when Justine sets down her knife and fork with a decisive clink. “So. How did you and my son meet?”

“He was Charles’ teacher at the time -- that was nearly three years ago.” She knows, even as she says the words, that they’ll be weighed and judged and viewed from the worst angle possible, but there’s nothing to be done for it. And so she smiles over at Olivier, thinking of how they’d danced around each other in those early days. “Charles can be difficult, but Olivier worked wonders.”

“Hardly surprising, when the boy’s father is absent.”

It’s far from the first time she’s heard the accusation that lurks, unspoken but clearly present, in the words. “I find,” she ripostes, drawing on years of experience to keep her face calm -- they can’t know the words attack her coming and going, as child and mother both, but she can feel Olivier’s fury in the tension of his fingers and knows one of them has to remain level-headed, “that the number of parents matters a great deal less than how a child is raised. Care and affection weigh far more heavily than blood or numbers.”

The warning flash in the older woman’s eyes makes it clear her point has been understood. She turns from Anne to Olivier, though, all without missing a beat, and the next words are more blunt than anything Anne would have expected. “And how much is this new child responsible for your impending wedding?”

He jerks as if slapped, and his grip on her hand tightens almost painfully. When he speaks, though, the words are still full of a chilly civility and the only sign of the rage coursing through him is the dull flush that creeps up past his collar. “You have no right to ask that question, maman.”

“I have --”

“ _No right_.”

Anne’s certain she’s not the only one who hears the warning there, but neither of his parents pays it any heed. “You’ve always been sentimental,” Frédéric says, as if speaking to an unreasonable child. “Your mother is simply looking out for you.”

She wants to leap to his defence (and, well, to her own, because the insinuation that he’s only marrying her because she’s pregnant is one thing, but to imply that it’s the only reason she’s pregnant -- to pry in such a way as to discern whether she is fobbing off another man’s child on an unsuspecting fiancé -- is absolutely an insult deliberately levied her way), but the little he’s said of his parents makes her hold her tongue. All the things left unsaid tonight have made it more than clear this is a battle he needs to fight.

“We came here,” Olivier is saying, and that tightly-reined anger makes his voice tremble, “as a courtesy to you. I had hoped we could mend bridges so that you might come to know your grandchild. But if this is how you welcome my fiancée, then be damned if I’ll let you have _any_ part of my family -- and be doubly damned if I’ll be any part of _yours_.”

“Olivier --”

He releases her hand, but only to push his chair back from the table, glaring thunderously at both of his parents. “No. We’re done.”

~ * ~

“I’m sorry,” he says as they stand on the platform some time later, waiting for the next metro homeward. “I shouldn’t have put either of you through that. I just forget, sometimes, how impossible they are.”

For a long moment neither mother nor son responds, but then Anne huffs out a quiet laugh. “I’m not.” And, when he frowns, “They deserved every bit of what they got, and a good deal they didn’t.”

The words make him relax for the first time since his mother’s phone call the week before, but it’s Charles’ question that dispels the last of the tension. “So,” the boy asks, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other as he peers up, and there’s a surprising depth of understanding in those dark eyes, “does this mean we get just you after all?”

“I --” it catches him off-guard a little, and he pauses, considers. For all that his words back in the restaurant were hasty, they were _true_ ; he’s thought of breaking with his family more than once, but there has always been a part of him still the child who’d never been enough, who’d hoped someday to gain their approval. Tonight had _hurt_ , but at the same time it had made him realise that he was unwilling to have to forever reshape himself to accommodate their image of what he should be. The space they fit has always been awkward, so unlike the smooth ease with which he and Aramis and Porthos mesh together. “Just me and a couple of half-mad uncles for you and your future sibling,” he says finally, reaching out to ruffle Charles’ hair as a sudden fierce fondness fills him. (The way he and Anne and Armand fit in Olivier’s life has never felt awkward either, and he muses once again how strange that notion should be -- and how strange that it _isn’t_ , but from the first Anne has felt right, in a way no woman ever had before.)

Charles is scowling and patting his hair back into place and unsuccessfully hiding a grin that’s threatening to break free. When he looks from son to mother he finds Anne watching them both with an unusually soft expression, but she just catches both of their arms as the train pulls in, and in the squeal of the brakes he almost misses her quietly certain, “Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Masterlist](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/post/119421542484/kid-dartagnan-au-masterlist) over on Tumblr. [Askbox](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/ask) is always open for prompts, questions, or whatever.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "Charles meeting his baby sibling for the first time."
> 
> Somewhere in my files is a fragment about Charles deciding to call Olivier 'Papa', and I had intended to finish it before this but that obviously didn't happen. So just know that it happens, because it makes how Charles refers to people here make more sense.
> 
> I don't know why this 'verse makes me write so much sap, but it does, and it's very weird – as anyone who knows my usual writing habits will attest to. Which clearly means I need to go write something grim and unpleasant now to reclaim my cred. XD;

He knows Maman and Papa won’t love him any less once his little brother or sister is born, just like he doesn’t love his first Papa any less because he has a new one. But knowing that doesn’t stop him from worrying sometimes, even if he’s sure it’s stupid and silly, because he’s just barely gotten used to the changes in his small family over the past six months, and now he has to figure out how to be a big brother too.

He talks with Connie and Annie about it, because they’re his best friends (and Annie has little brothers and sisters, so she’s been through this before), and it makes him feel a little better, especially when they both promise that if it’s a sister they’ll help him understand girls – which he likes to think he does pretty well, because _they’re_ girls and they still make sense, but maybe it’ll be different. And it’s good to see that things at home don’t really change over the months, even if Maman sleeps more as time passes, and occasionally snaps at him for no reason (and okay, she did that before, but everyone does that sometimes). There are things already there for the baby – he’s helped put them together – but they don’t feel as strange as he thought they might. And so he’s not really scared, but it still makes him a little nervous, because it’s going to be different, and different is always a bit intimidating.

When they go in to the hospital, he still has to go to school, his protest overridden by both parents. Pépé assures him he’s not missing anything except sitting around waiting, but even though he believes the words he spends the day distracted and impatient, until even Annie’s patience runs out and she shakes her head and leaves him alone to sit with Connie. He comes home to a house that feels too empty, and wonders how much longer this waiting will last (wonders, too, if it’s normal or if Maman’s having problems and no one will tell him), and when Pépé’s phone rings in the middle of dinner it’s an unimaginable relief.

Pépé doesn’t say much during the call, and Charles can hear enough to know it’s Papa on the other end but not enough to understand, so he concentrates on wolfing down what’s left of his dinner. If they’re going to the hospital after this, as he suspects they are, he wants to be ready.

“So,” Pépé says when he hangs up, glancing down at Charles’ now-empty plate with a smile, “you have a sister, my boy. Let’s get this cleaned up and go meet her.”

~ * ~

He’s been to hospitals before – once when Pépé was very sick, and once when he was little and broke his arm falling out of the pear tree – and they always felt like a mix of adventure and fear, pressing tight and hard on his stomach. This is different, because no one’s hurt, but it’s a little the same because it’s all strange and new, and even if it’s exciting it still makes him wary.

He doesn’t know what to expect as he follows Pépé down the hall, though he manages to offer the nurses who smile at him a hesitant smile in return. It’s pretty quiet, mostly doctors and nurses, and before he’s realised they’re outside the door, and he stops cold. If he takes another step, if he crosses that threshold, it’ll be real, and suddenly that thought terrifies him. What if he can’t figure out how to be a good big brother? What if Maman and Papa decide they like his sister better than they like him? What if –

He must make some sound, because Pépé turns back to him, worry tracing the lines in his face deeper. “What’s wrong, Charles?”

“I –” but he can’t find the words and so he just curls his shoulders into his jacket, feeling his ears turn red. It’s horribly embarrassing, being scared of a stupid little baby when he’s eleven years old and almost a proper grown-up, and knowing that only makes him flush even more, even as he watches the worry in Pépé’s face turn soft. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do more than rest a warm hand on Charles’ head, but the familiar touch calms him in a way words couldn’t have. _‘It’ll be okay,’_ Charles reminds himself, leaning into his grandfather’s touch, remembering the day they’d found out about his new sister. _‘They promised. It’ll be okay.’_ And because he can’t be a baby now, not when he’s going to have to start setting a good example, he squares his shoulders and looks up at Pépé and nods once, sharp and determined.

The door is quiet as he pushes it open, but when he peeks around it everyone in the room is awake. Maman looks a little pale and tired but mostly pleased; Papa, seated beside her, has an expression on his face Charles has never seen before – no, that’s not right, he’s seen it once, when he asked if it would be alright to call him Papa. (It’s a little like how Papa looks at Maman, like he’s been given a gift he’s not sure he deserves.) He can’t really see the baby, except as this bundle of blanket in Maman’s arms; when he comes closer, she peels the blanket back to give him a better look.

“She’s so _small_.” It slips out before he can catch it, but that’s all he can think of – this tiny creature, all red face and fingers clutching at the blanket edge, is nothing like what he expected a sister might be. When he reaches out unthinkingly, though, touches one hand, she flails out and catches his finger, curls hers around it tightly. Charles watches in absolute fascination.

“You weren’t much bigger at that age,” Pépé says from behind him, something a little like a laugh in his voice.

“He was smaller,” Maman corrects, “though he made up for it soon enough.” When he wrenches his eyes away from the baby’s face she’s watching them both with a smile that quiets all of his fears. “So. Do you think she’ll be alright, even if she’s small?”

Charles looks from her to Papa, and then back down to the baby again. She’s pulled his finger to her mouth and is drooling on it now, but he doesn’t care; she’s his sister, and she knows him already, and he’s still a little scared that he’s going to mess up but now that he’s looking at her, he knows that even if he does it’ll be okay. They can both learn together. Papa was right, all those months ago – it’s going to be different, but different isn’t bad, and none of them will love each other any less because there’s one more person in the family to love.

“Oh,” he says as if it’s nothing, but he knows he’s not fooling any of them – not with how he’s looking at his sister, “I think we’ll manage.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Hi, um, can we see something with D'Artagnan meeting his 'half-mad uncles' for the first time in the kid!D'Artagnan AU? Or anything featuring Thomas and Catherine (if they get Richelieu'd in the process, all the better.)"
> 
> I really liked the idea of Grandpapa Richelieu laying into Thomas and Catherine but didn't have the faintest idea of how to write it, so ... enter Aramis and Porthos for the first time instead. This jumps back in the timeline a little.

He’s heard about them from Papa; it would’ve been impossible not to, when they figure into Papa’s stories about his time in the army. And thanks to those stories, Charles has a little bit of a picture in his head of what Monsieur Porthos and Monsieur Aramis must be like, because there’s certain things that stand out about them – how Porthos laughs at everything, no matter how badly things are going, and how Aramis seems to always have the right words for a situation (except when he doesn’t, and at those times he’s spectacularly wrong). He knows Papa thinks of them as brothers, and that means they must be good people, and he knows Papa loves them more than he does his blood relatives (and now that he’s met those relatives he understands that a lot better), but that doesn’t really tell him that much. There are plenty of people Papa knows here in Paris, but very few that Charles thinks he’d consider friends, and so he doesn’t really have anything to compare it against.

And so when Papa tells them at dinner that he’s heard from Aramis, and that he and Porthos will be there for the week before the wedding, Charles feels that same funny mix of anticipation and nerves in his stomach that he did when Maman told him he was going to be a big brother. The idea of uncles (he’s never had any) is exciting, but he still wonders if they’ll like him or if they’ll think he’s too much of a kid for anything – wonders if they even _like_ kids, when he knows neither of them has any.

He confides in Maman one afternoon, when it’s just the two of them at home, and the smile she gives him is a little twisty before she assures him that they can worry together. He can’t help laughing in response, because _of course_ they’ll like Maman – how can they not, when she makes Papa so happy? And that thought makes him feel a little better, because he knows being part of their family makes Papa happy too, so that’s bound to be a good sign.

“They’ll stay here,” Pépé says when the subject comes up, in a tone that brooks no argument. “It’d be a waste for them to spend money on a hotel when we have the space.” For all that his words are brusque, though, Charles can see that it’s meant kindly – and a glance over at Maman finds her nodding agreement, so they must have already talked about it. And then he realises that Pépé must know them too, from those long-ago days nobody really ever mentions when he and Papa were stationed in the same area, and it makes him feel better and worse all at once – better, because that knits his family a little closer together, and worse, because it means he’s going to be the odd one out – the only kid around five adults, and everyone but Maman will be just renewing acquaintances and won’t that be a little weird? Right now he mostly just wants them to be _here_ already, so he can stop being unsure about this whole thing, and he counts the days until their arrival with thinly-veiled impatience.

When he finds out their flight is due in the evening, he makes sure to be on his best behaviour for a week before he asks Maman and Papa if he can go to the airport with Papa to pick them up. “As long as all of your schoolwork and chores are done beforehand,” he’s told. He’s almost there that evening, busy with the washing-up when he hears Papa in the entryway, putting on his shoes, and his heart sinks at the sound until Maman takes the plate out of his hands and says, unusually gentle, “Go on.”

He can’t quite keep from whooping with delight as he rushes off to get ready.

“How long has it been?” he asks later, waiting in the arrivals area. He’s seen pictures but he doesn’t know how old they were, doesn’t really know what to look for, and so he just leans against the rail and watches as Papa scans the passengers coming out of the corridor.

“Almost seven years.” The reply is absent, almost distracted; it looks like he’ll continue, but then someone’s waving at them and Papa stops, straightens – and almost before Charles can react two men have descended upon them, and there’s hugging and clapping of shoulders and laughter and talking over each other, and he suddenly feels like all of his worries were absolutely correct, because Papa’s so _easy_ in their company, so obviously comfortable with them that he can’t help think once again that they’re going to look at his strange little family and find it wanting, and –

They’re looking at him now, one on either side of Papa, and he looks back up at them with all the calm he can muster – he is, if nothing else, his mother’s son, and he knows how to keep what he feels from showing on his face. It seems as if they stand there forever, assessing all around while Papa just waits (for what, Charles has no idea), but then the narrow-faced man on the left tilts his head just a little and asks, “This her boy, Athos?”

“Yes, this is Charles.”

The fond reply makes him breathe a little easier, though his palms are still damp with sweat as he thrusts his hand out. “Charles de Winter,” he says, as proper as he can. “Pleased to meet you.”

The other man barks out a laugh at this; it makes him jump, but when he looks up he finds dark eyes crinkling at the corners, open and friendly. “Well,” he says, and his hand envelops Charles’ small one, “I think the pleasure’s all ours. Anyone who finally got Athos to loosen up again is a good addition to the family – we’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

He looks back at Papa, whose ears are now a little red despite how he’s smiling, and rocks back on his heels, managing to keep both his face and his voice dubious even if he wants to grin with relief. “They seem okay, Papa. I guess you can keep them.”

They are (Charles thinks, as laughter follows the stunned silence at his pronouncement) going to be alright. _This_ is what family should be.

(He can see why Papa likes them.)


End file.
